


Tomorrow, the Same Day

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Character of Color, Character of Color, Community: kink_bingo, Injury, Interracial Relationship, Kinks, M/M, POV Male Character, Pre-Canon, body alteration/injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just like the first time Clay and Roque met, the tension as smooth and tight as the slide on a piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow, the Same Day

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place pre-movie.

The first swing splits the skin over Clay's knuckles and pumps his blood full of adrenaline until his skin is hot and his mouth burns from the grit of his teeth. It's just like the first time he and Roque met, the tension as smooth and tight as the slide on a piece. And just like that first time, when the blood splashes bright on Roque's teeth and trickles over the swell of his lip to spill down his chin, Clay wants to drag Roque in and suck his mouth clean.

Instead, he watches Roque swipe up the blood with the pad of his thumb. Roque stares at it, thick on his skin, his expression passive. A beat passes before he looks at Clay, but Clay's attention is caught by the dart of Roque's tongue and the splash of red dotted on the tip when Roque licks up the blood. It's brighter than the flat weight of Roque's gaze.

"Okay," Roque says and kicks the door shut. He reaches behind him and pulls the Rambo knife that he won from some lieutenant in the 19th Special Forces Group before he was tossed onto Clay's team. That was five years ago. "Let's do this."

"I warned you," Clay says, cocking his head until he can feel the bones in his neck pop. "I give an order, you follow it."

They start circling each other, Roque's blade catching the dim light from the lamp, the glint of the metal dull. But Clay knows the business end isn't, the serrated edge as sharp as the cut of Roque's teeth when they're sinking into his skin.

"The order was BS," Roque says, his eyes narrowed on Clay. "You think you're some kind of DICK—"

Clay makes the first move — like always — feinting right and then coming in with his left. He jabs his knuckles into the soft tissue below Roque's ribs. "And what the hell do you think you are?" Clay watches Roque's lips part on a sharp intake of a breath and then Clay's attention is captured by the flex of muscles in Roque's forearm, the way his fingers tighten on the hilt of the knife instead of loosen.

Clay should have seen the right and silently curses that he missed it when Roque plants a fist in his stomach, sending a bright burst of pain through Clay's muscles. Clay struggles to suck in air, his eyes watering as he dry heaves. He gives in to the weak feeling in his knees and ducks the left jab Roque follows up with. He hooks his fingers into Roque's pants and hauls himself up, striking Roque in the sternum with the heel of his palm. It sends Roque backpedaling several steps, into the couch, his own breath caught short by the blow. Clay counts the seconds until he can inhale one clean breath and watches Roque rub the front of his chest. When Roque straightens, his mouth set in the same grim line that Clay remembers banishing with the sharp sting of his teeth the first time they kissed.

Back then, Clay had been bold and careless, stupid and high off of surviving a gut wound and a concussion when an op had gone south in Kuwait. All Clay remembered — aside from the nausea and the bleeding and how it hurt like an SOB — were Roque's hands and the solid heat of Roque's body as he hauled Clay's ass to the LZ.

The same high hits Clay now when Roque throws a right hook and Clay's head snaps to the side, his teeth cutting the inside of his cheek. Blood pulses warm and fast over his tongue and spills down his throat. He nearly chokes on it trying to take a breath — caught reminiscing — and coughs, his throat burning as his body tries to expel the foreign contaminant that's trying to invade his lungs. Same feeling as drowning, but with Roque, it always is.

Clay's in the middle of clenching his jaw and gearing up for a blow of his own when Roque's knife slices across his side. He snaps his teeth shut on the inside of his cheek on the side that's already cut and bleeding. The pain in his mouth and side is sharp and electric, tingling across his nerves and throbbing in time with his pulse. There's no time to staunch the bleeding or assess the damage, so Clay pivots to avoid the next downward sweep of Roque's knife while he tries not to choke on the blood that still burns in his throat.

It's sheer will and years of training that Clay swallows the cough, letting it sear dry and gritty in his throat, and keeps moving, reacting, countering and dodging until his muscles burn, too, his heart pounding so hard that he can feel the throb in his teeth.

Clay doesn't so much see an opening as takes it. He hunches over, a fresh twinge shooting up from his side and his muscles twitching from the cough that he's still struggling to suppress. When Roque takes a step forward, thinking he's got the advantage, Clay barrels into him with a shoulder tackle and slams him into the couch. He grabs Roque's wrist as they're going down but nearly loses his grip when they hit the floor. He rolls, keeping his grip so tight that he can feel the bones grind beneath his fingers. Clay twists Roque's wrist, sharp and quick, but Roque bares his teeth, jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his cheek. He still keeps hold of his weapon. Clay lays an arm across Roque's throat in a choke, watching Roque's nostrils flare, but Roque still doesn't surrender. He never does. So Clay twists harder until Roque's body overrides his brain and he lets go of the knife.

"I give you an order," Clay hisses, voice raspy, "you goddamn well better fucking follow it. Understood?" Clay bears down with his weight when Roque doesn't answer. "I said, is that understood?"

Roque's nostrils flare again, his lips thinning and his eyes narrowed and sharp. Then Clay's vision goes bright — should've seen that, too — pain flaring out from his ribs and seizing his already bruised lungs. His whole body goes numb from the sudden jagged hurt that digs in like a knife. It's not, though; he can always tell the difference.

Sparks explode in Clay's vision, his ear ringing from the slam of Roque's fist to his temple, but he manages to plant a hand to the ground and keep himself moderately steady. He's about to shove himself up when he feels Roque's palm at his shoulder. Then the world tilts. The back of Clay's head slams into the floor, and the shadows start creeping into the corners of his vision.

"The order was still bullshit," Roque says, his weight settling on Clay's hips. "You know the—"

Clay rears up, but Roque shoves him back down with a hand firmly wrapped around Clay's throat, all five fingers digging into Clay's skin like Roque really means it.

"You know the rules," Roque says. "We go in as a team, we go out as a team."

Clay tastes blood and sweat and a sweet inhale of cool air when Roque finally kisses him. Roque's hips grind down and the fingers that were wrapped around Clay's neck probe at the knife wound on Clay's side. Clay shivers, groans, and then grabs Roque's wrist and twists when Roque doesn't let up. He fists his free hand into Roque's shirt and lets go of Roque's wrist so he can slide his left up under the cotton. He traces the stitches running up Roque's side, all accounted for, nothing ripped in their fight — even though Clay's the one who's in the right. Roque needs to learn how to follow a fucking order. But that argument is done for now because Roque's tongue is pushing Clay's lips apart, and Clay imagines something bigger sliding down his throat until he chokes.

"You wanted this," Roque says, his mouth still close enough to brush Clay's as he talks, "you could have fucking asked."

"You could have followed my orders."

Clay grabs Roque's face and crushes the rest of the reprimand out between the press of their mouths. He sucks the blood from Roque's lips and then licks it off the slick edge of Roque's teeth, getting the copper taste of it off of Roque's tongue. Roque bites Clay's tongue, a sharp, short nip that makes Clay jerk back on instinct.

"I'm serious, Clay."

"So am I."

Clay shoves Roque back, feels Roque shift just enough to balance out his weight and resist the push. Clay doesn't mind starting this all over again. The impact of the punch shoots up Clay's entire arm. His knuckles bleed again, and the fresh hurt starts a hard and insistent throb in his hand. There's a splatter of blood on Roque's chin, and Clay darts forward to lick it off, his right hand curled around the back of Roque's skull and his left palming the hard bulge in Roque's pants.

Roque's hips drive up, and Clay feels a tug on his shirt, Roque's fingers wrapped in the fabric as his other slides wet and hurried over Clay's wound. Clay thinks he might need stitches, too, but he pushes the thought aside and bites at Roque's mouth and jaw and throat until he finally gets Roque's BDU's unbuttoned. He shoves a hand inside before Roque can say one more word about the op and gets his fingers good and tight on Roque's cock. He watches Roque's eyes squeeze shut, Roque's lips parting on a silent gasp. It's easy, after that, to get Roque to the floor and to drag his BDUs around his knees.

Clay runs his tongue across his own teeth, still tastes copper and sweat, each heavy inhale of the AC-laden air burning his raw throat. None of that matters so much as the taste of Roque's cock filling his mouth. Clay stretches his lips around the head, his fist tight around the shaft, and sucks until he feels the tremble in Roque's thighs and feels Roque's fingers threading into his hair. The inside of Clay's cheek aches from the stretch, but his whole body throbs from each wound and bruise, all of it amplified by the rush of his blood as he takes Roque deeper into his mouth.

"Damn it, Clay," Roque murmurs.

There's nothing after that, only the wet sounds of Clay sucking Roque's cock on their living room floor and Clay's groans each time he pushes himself to take Roque's length. He ignores the way his throat clenches tight, the burn setting off what should be another coughing jab. Clay doesn't let up enough to give into it, not when he knows Roque is close by the way he pulls on Clay's hair and the way his trembles become a steady roll of his hips just shy of fucking Clay's mouth. That's exactly what Clay wants — Roque, all of him, right now. Because Roque should have never come back when Clay gave the order to fall back. He should've gotten on that damn chopper.

Clay sucks harder, reaching a hand up to finger the stitches laddered up Roque's side. The fingers of his left hand dig into the meat of Roque's thigh, and he takes Roque's cock in a rough slide that nearly has his teeth scraping against the shaft. The first spurt of Roque's come is a surprise and nearly has Clay choking until he pulls back enough and hears the harsh way Roque groans. Roque grips the back of Clay's skull and shoves in on a hard thrust, the thick coat of his come on the back of Clay's tongue heavy and bitter. It mingles with the copper taste of blood that still lingers in Clay's mouth.

Clay pulls off and finally lets loose the cough that's been trapped in his chest, hacking until he's bent over double and struggling to clear his throat. Roque squeezes Clay's shoulder and then disappears. He comes back with a wet washcloth, a glass of water, and the medkit they keep in the closet for emergencies. Clay doesn't think this counts as one, but he doesn't say anything, just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and lets Roque get his shirt up and off. Clay keeps his arm raised and takes slow sips of water until the tickle in his throat is nothing but a rough scratch. He eyes the drops of blood gummed in the threads of the carpet as Roque cleans the knife wound.

"Did you—" Clay winces at the harsh, raspy sound of his voice and takes a large gulp of water. "Did you have to cut me?" he asks, stretching flat on his back at Roque's prodding.

"Did you have to punch me before I got through the door?"

Clay grins in answer, and Roque shakes his head, continuing to probe at the wound with the tips of his fingers.

"It's not a deep cut," he says.

"It wasn't a hard punch."

They fall silent again, and Clay does a mental run through of the rest of his injuries. Throat hurts, the inside of his cheek cut, knife wound on his side that'll probably develop into a scar that'll match the one low on his hip, and a bruise under his ribs. He's got a thick skull so he's not worried too much about his face; he can still see out of both eyes and breathe. He's got a full body throb, though, which means he'll be stiff and aching come morning. Maybe a long, hot soak will help stave off the worst of it.

The antibacterial ointment is cold, but Clay relaxes when Roque rubs it into his skin. By the time Roque tapes down the gauze, Clay's ready for a shower and some sleep. He doesn't protest, though, when Roque works off his jeans and brushes a kiss to the inside of his thigh. Roque is slow and leaves Clay straddling the edge of climax until his whole body is taut with the need, his chest tight with pent up desire.

"Damn it, Roque," Clay growls, squeezing Roque's shoulders so he can get enough leverage for a thrust.

Roque pushes down on his thighs, the damp slide of his mouth slow and his tongue teasing and soft on Clay's cock. It feels like it takes hours — Clay shaking, pushing back, moaning for more — but Clay comes just like that, on a warm wave that loosens all the tension locked in his muscles.

It's give and take — always will be between them — so Clay lays there for a quiet moment and stares up into Roque's face. The weight of Roque's hand is a solid reminder of where they are, where they'll always be when things go bad. Clay sits up and takes a kiss that splits Roque's lip open again. Roque sighs but cups the back of Clay's neck, keeps him close and lets Clay lap at the blood 'til there's nothing but the split skin between them.


End file.
